“Then why are you staring at me like you want to throw me on this table?”
“Jesus Christ, Hennessy,” he hisses, glancing around the nearly empty diner. “Keep your voice down.”
I smile sweetly and cut another piece of pancake. “First you want me to shut up, now you want me to keep my voice down. I don’t think you really want either of those things.”
The muscle in his jaw twitches—my favorite tell that I'm getting under his skin. It's the same twitch I saw right before he pinned me against the wall and fucked me senseless. The memory makes heat pool between my legs.
I pop the bite into my mouth, making sure to lick the fork clean. “These really are the best pancakes I've ever had. Good call, Coach.”
He winces at the title, exactly like I knew he would. “Don't call me that.”
“Why not? It's what you are.” I lean forward, giving him a perfect view down my top. “A big, strong, commanding coach.”
“Hennessy.” It's a warning. A plea. A prayer.
“Beckham,” I mimic his tone, enjoying this dance too much to stop. “Relax. No one here knows us.”
He takes a long drink of his coffee. “That's not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” I set down my fork, suddenly tired of pretending. “You drag me to breakfast after telling me what we had was over, then sit there looking at me like you're starving and I'm the last meal on earth.”
“I didn't drag you anywhere,” he mutters. “You came willingly.”
“I always do with you.” The double entendre isn't lost on him; his eyes darken to stormy gray. “But seriously, what are we doing here, Beckham?”
He stares at his plate, pushing eggs around with his fork. “Having breakfast.”
“Bullshit.” I kick his shin lightly under the table. “You could've walked away at the coffee shop. You didn't.”
“You needed real food.”
“So you're what, my nutritionist now?” I laugh, the sound bitter even to my own ears. “That's rich coming from a man who exists on protein shakes and spite.”
That gets a reluctant smile out of him. “I eat real food.”
I steal a piece of bacon from his plate while making a mhm sound of fake agreement.
“Look.” I put my fork down with more force than necessary, making our plates clatter. “I need to be straight with you because this back-and-forth is driving me fucking insane.”
His eyes snap to mine, the muscle in his jaw working overtime.
“I like you, Beckham. I like fucking you. I like looking at you.” I lean in, lowering my voice. “And I know you likefucking me and looking at me too. But if you can't handle my teasing, my jokes, the way I talk—then let's make this the actual last time we spend time together.”
He stiffens, his knuckles going white around his coffee mug. “What are you talking about?”
“I'm not going to change who I am because it makes you uncomfortable. And you shouldn't ask me to.”
“I never asked you to change anything,” he says, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. “That's bullshit.”
“Yes, you do.” I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “Maybe not directly, but it's in every reaction. Every time you tell me to shut up or keep my voice down. Every time you flinch when I say something that doesn't fit your idea of proper.” I take a deep breath. “It's subtle. Maybe even subconscious. But you do it.”
For a moment, he just stares at me, his face unreadable. Then something shifts in his expression—a crack in that perfect control.
“You think I want you to be different?” His voice drops to a dangerous rumble. “You think I want you to be some quiet, proper little girl?”
“Don't you?” I challenge. “Isn't that easier to deal with than...this? I’ve spent my whole life being the good girl, Beckham. Being who everyone wanted me to be. Now, I just want to be the me that I want.”
“Fuck no.” He leans forward, invading my space across the small table. “If I wanted easy, I wouldn't be sitting here with you right now.”
